


faith and sanctuary

by commodorecliche



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Falling In Love, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Mild Gore, Priests, Trust, Vampires, basically Keith is a vampire and Shiro is a priest, there are some descriptions of injuries and there's mention of decapitation near the end, there's a mild sex scene near the end, vampire/priest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 10:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14616074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: Keith is a vampire living in a small village. For years he's managed to live in relative peace. He keeps to himself, save for when he has to feed, and has been more or less unnoticed by the local townsfolk. However, when the people of the village discover him, they come to his home and attempt to dispose of him. Injured and fleeing for his life, Keith goes on the run, searching for a place where he can rest and heal his wounds. After being refused by others, Keith stumbles across a small church where he meets a kindhearted priest, named Shiro, who takes him in and tends to his injuries without hesitation. Torn between trusting Shiro and looking after himself, Keith wonders how much of his true nature he should let Shiro know. But in the face of Shiro's welcoming nature and warmth, Keith can't help but let Shiro come to know him.





	faith and sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> this is a commission I did for the wonderful [gee-lil-shit](https://gee-lil-shit.tumblr.com). giada, my dear, I hope you enjoy this! It wound up being so much longer than I originally intended because I just had such fun writing it. I hope it's everything you wanted to see. 
> 
> if you're interested in commissioning me, you can check out my commissions information **[here](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/171346023708/fic-commissions-open)**. 
> 
> Enjoy the fic!

The wound in Keith’s side is a throbbing mass of heat and pain. Mangled flesh and sinew, torn apart by a splattering of metal that penetrated his body before he'd even registered that the gun had fired. The lead shot embedded in the meat of his side isn’t enough to kill him - it would have to be silver for that - but the shrapnel  _hurts_. It will heal in due time, that he knows. But he needs to rest.

Rest, unfortunately, isn’t an option at the moment. Keith stumbles along through the mud and rain, pushing his body through the pain as best he can. He’s been through worse. He’s fought harder battles, had closer calls than this, been attacked by angrier people than this. He just needs to find somewhere safe he can stay through the night and the next day.

Behind him, the sound of the mob is muffled only by the torrent of rain bearing down upon him. They had descended on him, not with torches, stakes, or pitchforks like the olden days, but with dogs the likes of hellhounds, baseball bats armed with nails, and guns. Painful, biting guns. After the first blast, Keith managed - but just barely - to put some distance between himself and the crowd, using the split second of confusion after the gunshot to slip from their grasp and sprint away.

He'd used the last of what little energy he had to flee, to survive. Little more than concentrated effort and willpower pushes him forward and keeps his legs moving. But every step he takes drains him just a little more.

They had caught him off-guard. They’d found his home - far on the outskirts of town - and caught him while he was sleeping. They’d dragged him from his bed - luckily just before sunset - a horde of at least ten men and women holding him, hitting him, restraining him, trying to drag him out into the last bit of light the daytime had to offer. He’d resisted and fought long enough for the sun to set, but what strength he might have normally had was dwindled, weakened from sleep and a lack of food. Keith isn’t even sure when the shotgun was fired, its wielder lost in the blur of people restraining him and fighting him, but he felt the sting of it hit before he’d even heard the blast.  

By now, Keith has put about a half-mile between himself and the townsfolk. He's faster than them, even when injured, but he can’t keep this pace up. He hasn’t eaten in a full day now and the weakness in his bones shackles him, slows him down like weights on his ankles. Keith reminds himself to just keep moving.

His feet stumble in the mud. Clutching his bloodied side, he fumbles to the ground, barely catching himself with his free hand in the slop. It’s a struggle back up to his feet - sliding in the wet and the muck as he forces himself to stand and keep running.

A few yards ahead of him, a building stands stark. Even in the darkness, Keith can tell it’s a church. It’s large and sprawling, funded by the tithings of local zealots, he’s sure. It’s far too opulent and austere to call itself a house of God.

Churches aren’t Keith’s favorite locale, but it will do just fine for a short while. Hell, he’d take a  _barn_ right now if it meant getting out of the rain and out of the sights of the pursuant mob. His feet drag him forward, trudging through the mud with every ounce of effort he can muster, until he’s stumbling up the slick, stone steps. He collapses hard against the heavy, wooden door, one arm clutching his side, the other lifting to pound against its surface.

He slams his fist against the door as hard as he can - the knock resounds through the church so loudly that Keith hears its reverberations over the sound of the heavy rain. But no one answers. He swings his arm against the door again - three hard bangs this time - and shouts over the downpour.

“I seek refuge! Please, open the door!”

Keith pushes himself up off the door, standing, but curled around his wound. He hits the door again - weaker this time - and calls out again, hoping someone might hear him. But no answer comes.

“Someone,  _please_! I seek shelter!” Keith shouts again, his voice barely carrying over the downpour.

A beat passes but no response comes. Keith is about to bang on the door again, but before his hand can make contact, it cracks open.

Through the sliver, there's a pallid, wrinkled face staring out at him with skepticism. The face is shrouded in darkness, but it’s not enough to hide his features from Keith. There's a cross draped around his neck and discomfort in the tense lines around his lips.

“What do you want?” the priest demands.

“Please, I'm injured. I need shelter - just for a while.”

Keith clutches his side, not wanting to show the full extent of the damage to the stranger. The wound is severe and hurts him, yes, but its severity would be enough to kill a mortal man; he doesn't want to raise suspicion. The priest pauses for a moment and looks Keith over, his eyes scanning him from head to toe. He seems to be considering opening the door, but he falters as his eyes lock with Keith's.

A beat passes between them; it seems far longer to Keith than the few seconds that actually pass. Keith’s side throbs with each breath he takes. The pastor scans him head to toe another time and settles his gaze on Keith's face.

He shakes his head in a curt refusal.

“I’m sorry, son, I cannot help you.”

The preacher doesn’t wait for Keith to reply, moving to close the door before he can speak. The motion sends a jolt of pain coursing through him, but Keith flings a hand out to stop the closure. Even as weak as he is now, he’s still far stronger than this man could ever hope to be. He holds the heavy, wooden door ajar, fighting against this man’s shaking attempting to close it in his face.

“Wait,” Keith pleads, “I’m… I’m hurt and I just need -”

The priest doesn’t let him finish.  

“No. I know  _your_   _kind_.”

“My what?” Keith breathes.

“I  _know_ what you are and what you want, and you  _will not_ have it.”

Keith swallows the lump in his throat. Somewhere, far off from the church, Keith can hear the distant roar of the mob. They’re still after him and he knows they will not stop their pursuit until they get their hands on him. Keith supposes he can understand their hatred of him - he’s taken their livestock. Taken their loved ones.

He’s used to people hating him.

The priest stares at the wound on Keith’s side without sympathy, clinically eyeing the blood that is dripping across the pale skin of Keith’s hand. It’s begun to pool into a dark splotch on the rain-drenched steps - obvious even in the darkness of the night. He sucks in a deep breath and glances back up, staring into Keith’s eyes, a fervor in his gaze that had not been there a moment before.

“This is sacred, holy ground, boy. A house of worship,” he continues, shaking his head again. “Leave this place at once. You don’t belong here. ”

Keith’s hand on the door falters and without hesitation, the priest slams it in his face. He stumbles back at the force of it before stepping forward and slamming his fist into it again. The bangs are drowned out by the torrent of rain, but he knows the priest hears them.

“What of helping those in need? And sanctuary?!” Keith shouts through the door, his voice angry and visceral through the barrier between them, “What of refuge under  _God_?!”

To Keith’s surprise, the door actually cracks open again.

“God…?” the priest starts, sardonic and harsh, and he chuckles as if Keith’s words had undeserved gall, “God has no refuge for the likes of  _you_ . You will find  _no_ sanctuary here, boy. The devil has already claimed you.”

Keith doesn’t respond; his breath comes out in terse pants. He wants to speak but doesn’t know what he could say to sway this man. The priest glares at him through the barely-cracked door and heaves a resolute sigh.

“Leave this place and take your evil with you.”

The door closes again - not with the same force as before but there is a hollow finality in its closure that silences whatever protests Keith might have had. Keith hangs his head and pants, clutching the wound at his side. His hand is wet and sticky, coated in a mixture of blood and rain that make it hard to keep pressure on the wound. Through the pain radiating through his abdomen and the pounding of the rain, the sounds of the townsfolk are ever-present. They’re still far off - far enough away that Keith has a favorable head start still - but he can’t linger here for long.

“Fuck…” Keith hisses to himself and leans his forehead against the church doors.

The door is closed, the mob is still moving, and he cannot stay here.

So he runs.

**::**

It’s only a few miles before Keith finds another church. He doesn’t want to take his chances on any of the villagers’ homes, and abandoned structures where he could safely hole up are few and far between. Churches, at least, are constants in cities and towns with religious zeal.

Keith forces himself to keep up his pace. Normally he might be faster, able to outrun these people, to put miles between them with little to no effort. But with a gaping wound in his side, weakness from hunger and exhaustion, swiftness is not on his side. But it’s enough; enough to maintain the distance between himself and the townsfolk, at least.

The second church he finds is considerably smaller than the first. Keith slows his pace as he approaches it and takes in its exterior. It’s a quaint little chapel, built of stone, unimposing and warm. There’s a soft glow of light radiating through one of the side windows. Something about it seems almost… welcoming.

He approaches the building with slow, heavy steps. He’s soaked to the bone and ready to collapse, weary and weak as he climbs the few short steps to the doors. He slumps against the door - the wood drenched, just like him, and twice as old - and raises a weak fist to knock. His bangs aren’t as powerful as they’d been at the first church, but he hopes they’re loud enough.

To his surprise, the door he’s leaning on opens after the first few knocks. Keith stumbles, barely stopping himself from falling as the door swings open wide.

A lone, young man stands in the entryway. He’s tall and angular with a powerful physique. But despite his imposing presence, there is a air of gentleness on his face. Keith intuits the compassion in this man’s gaze the moment he looks into his eyes. Keith is about to plead for entry, to beg for refuge as he had at the last church, but before he can, the young priest’s eyes go wide.

“My god, you’re hurt.”

The man is at Keith’s side in an instant. He slings an arm around Keith’s waist, helping support his small frame.

“Come. Come inside,” the man says, “Let’s get you out of this rain.”

The priest ushers him inside the church, leading him past a few rows of pews and towards a door in the right wall of the church. The man makes sure that his movements are at Keith’s speed, guiding him through each step, but not wanting to force him to overexert himself. The priest bumps open a door and leads him down a short hallway attached to the nave of the church, and walks him towards a room tucked away at the end.

Inside, there are a few beds, three cots on either side of the room for a total of six. Keith wonders why a church so small should need so many, but he doesn’t bother to ask. The room, otherwise, doesn’t look lived in. He wonders if this is not the priest’s personal quarters, but he doesn’t ask. Instead, he lets the priest guide him forward and ease him down onto one of the small cots. He takes a quick second to glance around the room - there are no windows. It’s a small blessing. But there’s also no clock.

“Lie back,” the priest tells him as he sits Keith down on the bed. Keith shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay, I just,” Keith pauses to suck in a few controlled gulps of air, trying to steady his uneven breathing, “I just need to sit for a moment.”

The priest seems unconvinced but he releases Keith nonetheless. He unwinds his arm from around Keith’s waist and stands fully at the side of the bed. There’s a large, noticeable splotch of blood on his white robe; Keith is afraid to draw attention to it. The priest notices it anyway. He glances down at the stain and then back at Keith, his eyes fixated on the wound at which Keith is still clutching.

“Your side,” the priest murmurs, kneeling down at the side of the bed, “Let me see.”

Keith doesn’t uncover his wound; he doesn’t want this man, this kind man who gave him refuge without hesitation, to see the extent of the damage. He doesn’t want him to see an injury that likely should have killed him were he mortal.

The priest reaches a hand out to touch Keith’s, but he stops short when Keith flinches.

“Please,” he says, his voice soft and warm, “I can tend it…”

“It’s… it’s okay, really.”

“Let me at least dress it…”

Keith blinks, staring back at the priest. There is so much kindness in his eyes, such openness and care. He’s a good man, Keith can tell that much: a rare find in these parts.

Keith hesitates for a moment but despite his reservations, there is a niggling pull in his chest that tells him he should trust this man. Uneasy, Keith lifts his hand from his side, uncovering the mess of torn fabric, flesh, and blood that is his lateral abdomen. The shrapnel from the shotgun has mangled it, turning the solid flesh into little more than minced meat. It’s nothing Keith can’t recover from, but an injury like this requires time to heal, even for the likes of him.

“My God,” the priest gasps at the sight of it, and without another word, he’s up off his knees and trotting out of the room. Keith tenses, halfway considering that he might return with a weapon of his own. A gun, maybe - do priests carry guns? - or perhaps a good, old fashioned stake to ram through Keith’s chest.

But instead he returns with medical supplies, a couple of bowls, and a few containers of water and alcohol.  

The priest tugs off his robe, revealing a plain, white t-shirt and black pants. It’s a casual and attractive look, Keith must admit, the t-shirt taut across his well-defined chest and arms. The priest drops back to his knees by the bed, sets the kit on the mattress and fumbles it open. Once again, he looks up at Keith’s face.

“Can you uh… would you lie down? I just want to clean and bandage it… It could get infected.”

It won’t get infected - his injuries never do - but he’s not going to tell this stranger that. Keith licks his lips, but nods a curt nod and eases onto his back.

The two of them don’t speak as the priest pours some of the water and alcohol into a bowl, and soaks a few pads of gauze with it. He leans in close, examining the way the soggy fabric of Keith’s shirt - drenched in blood and rain - clings to every loose chunk of muscle at his side. Keith watches as the priest bites his lip and begins to tentatively peel the frayed pieces of fabric up and away from his skin. Keith assists as best he can, shifting so he can lift the shirt up, leaving just his gaping wound exposed. Keith sucks in a low breath and looks away, never one to enjoy looking at his injuries. They are an uncomfortable but persistent reminder that, despite his immortality, he’s still fragile. He’s still breakable.

He exhales a quiet sigh, shakes the thoughts away, and instead, focuses his attention on the priest’s face.

“I’m sorry about your robe,” Keith hums.  

The priest pauses for a second, as if confused, and then shrugs. He remains focused on cleaning Keith’s mangled tissue. Each touch of the alcohol-covered gauze stings, but Keith won’t flinch.

“It’s just a robe, it’ll wash out. Your well-being is more important.”

Keith furrows his brow. He hasn’t heard a sentiment like that in years. This priest wouldn’t feel the same if he knew what Keith really was, Keith is sure of that.

“Hey,” the priest continues, “I never got your name.”

“Oh… Uh, Keith.”

There’s something strange about telling another person his name, let alone a priest.  Most people have never cared to know him in the first place, and Keith is usually just fine with that arrangement. People don’t ask him what his name is and he keeps to himself, save for when he has to feed. It works well enough.   
  
But something is different about this one.  
  
This one wants to know.  
  
Keith isn’t sure how to feel about that.  

“Keith,” the priest repeats. He dunks the gauze - now soaked through and drenched in the red of Keith’s blood - into a bowl and returns to the wound. “I’m Shiro.”

“Shiro, that’s an interesting name.”

Japanese, if Keith had to guess.

“Yes. It’s not my full name, more of a nickname really, but… I’ve taken a liking to it. It means white.”

“Well, at least you’ve got the right color robes,” Keith forces out, delirious as he tries not to cry out as Shiro presses more firmly into his wound.

Shiro senses his discomfort and mutters a quick apology. He doesn’t laugh at Keith’s poor attempt at a joke, his attention far too focused on Keith’s wound.

“What happened to you, Keith?”

Keith isn’t sure what to tell him. Surely, Shiro can tell the full extent of his injuries, surely can see the flecks of metal shrapnel embedded in his skin and muscle. What can Keith tell this man that will not raise his suspicions more than they already are?

He decides to tell him the truth, for no other reason than the persistent tug inside his chest that tells him that he can trust Shiro.

“A bad run-in with the townsfolk. I met the wrong end of a shotgun.”

“Am I to assume… they fired it with intention?”

“Very much so.”

“They don’t sound like your biggest fans…”  

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Keith murmurs in response.

Shiro’s hands are shaking now, the slightest tremble tainting his movements as he dabs at Keith’s skin with tension. Keith can see how his demeanor changes the longer he tends to Keith’s injury. His calming concern for Keith’s well-being it seems has been replaced by nervousness and unsurity. And the shift stings more than Keith would like to admit. He tries not to think about it. This man, this priest, owes him nothing and yet he has offered Keith sanctuary, medical care, and compassion. He opened his doors to him without hesitation; Keith can’t blame him for being nervous at the sight of an injury that should have killed any normal man.

But, even despite his obvious uneasiness, Shiro does not stop his care. He cleans Keith’s wound, sterilizes the exposed flesh as best he can and wipes away the blood. He leaves the bits of metal where they have dug themselves deep within Keith’s body. The wound will heal but the shrapnel will likely always remain: there’s still a minié ball embedded somewhere in his shoulder from a musket wound years ago.

Finishing up his work, Shiro covers the wound with a makeshift bandage. The bleeding hasn’t fully stopped, and Keith is sure it will bleed through the pristine white gauze within the hour, but it will do for now. The wound will heal enough through the night and following day - he can leave once the sun goes down tomorrow.

Once Shiro secures the bandage, he draws his hands back towards himself. There’s blood on his fingers, the red of Keith’s body staining splotches of his skin. Shiro pulls his hands in close to his body and sinks back to sit atop his heels, but he stays knelt at the bedside. Keith eases up off the mattress to sit, one hand holding onto his injury as he does so.

“Thank you, father,” Keith says.

Shiro rests his bloodied hands on his thighs and curls his fingers into uneasy fists atop them. He drops his gaze away from Keith’s.

“Please, call me Shiro.”  

His voice is soft but it is laced with surety, and that alone takes Keith by surprise.

“Of course… Shiro.”  

“This injury,” Shiro starts, his voice a bit unsteady, “it’s quite severe.”

“Yes.”

“I am… surprised that you’re alive at all. Most would not have,” Shiro pauses, as if searching for a delicate way to express his thoughts, “ _survived_  this sort of wound.”

Keith doesn’t reply; he senses there is more to say, lingering on Shiro’s tongue.

“You are speaking, walking, functioning, and showing only moderate pain… while most mortal men would have died within minutes of an injury like this.”

Keith swallows and licks his lips. He gives Shiro a curt nod, though he know Shiro doesn’t see it.

“You’re right,” is all he says. It’s as close to the truth as he can get right now. He doesn’t know why, but he does not want to lie to this man.

Shiro’s fingers clench more tightly atop his thighs. Keith is sure his fingernails must be digging into the flesh of his palms by now. And Shiro still will not look back up at him.  

“You seem… uneasy,” Keith tells him, as if it were something Shiro didn’t know.

“The townsfolk,” Shiro starts, catching Keith off guard with the sudden change of topic, “The people here are… fundamentalists. Zealots who live by their fears, sometimes to a dangerous degree.”

Keith lets out a low hum.

“I would think their vigor would be appreciated by the church.”

Shiro shakes his head, but he does not look up.

“Perhaps it appreciated by some in the area, but not here. Their extremism has no place in God’s house.” Shiro lifts his head and meets Keith’s eyes. “These people, they fear what they don’t know… what they don’t understand.”

Keith’s lips part and a low breath escapes his mouth. Shiro doesn’t miss the slight gleam of Keith’s teeth, the barely-there sheen in the low light from a pair of canines Shiro knows are far too long. He doesn’t miss the spark in Keith’s eyes - purple and unnatural, with a hint of fiery red in their depths. There is something strikingly lifeless about them, inhuman, unnatural, and yet…  

And yet there is honesty in them, sincerity, a flash of something uniquely human, and Shiro notices it above all else.

“Do  _you_  understand?” Keith asks him.

Shiro inhales a long breath and exhales it with an uneasy sigh. He shakes his head and drops his eyes from Keith’s.

“I’m not sure.”

Keith is sure, taking note of the way Shiro speaks and the tension in his body. He clearly understands more than he admits.

“Are you afraid?”

The unspoken  _‘of me’_ at the end of Keith’s question hangs in the air between them.

Shiro lifts his head once more, eyes locking with Keith’s.

“No. I‘m not.”

**::**

Shiro excuses himself after that. He tells Keith that he will be around should he need him. When he leaves, he sets a glass of water on the small bedside table and Keith wonders if Shiro knows he won’t drink it.

Keith is restless for the remaining couple hours of the night, only feeling the weight of sleep once he senses the sunrise approaching. He dozes in a still and undisturbed slumber for the better portion of the day; time enough to allow his wound to heal a bit.

He wakes before sunset. The room is empty, as it was when he fell asleep, and if Shiro checked on him, he certainly left no sign of his presence. Keith eases up to a sitting position, his hand coming to rest on his injury as he shifts his legs over the side of the bed. His fingers tap at the bandage, exposed through the torn fabric of his shirt, and finds it damp and just beginning to crust. He knew it would bleed through. But the harsh sting of the wound has lessened through the night and now is little more than a dull ache. He’s sure it’s healed remarkably during his rest.

Keith stands from the bed, a bit uneasy on his feet, but steady enough. He hasn’t eaten for a couple days now - that combined with his still healing injury is enough to leave him weaker than he would prefer. He’ll feel better once he’s had a fresh meal, but food unfortunately is not an option at the moment.

Well, technically it  _is_ an option: the priest is around here somewhere. But Keith doesn’t wish to harm him. He has cared for Keith when others turned him away. He has been good to him. In all the years that Keith has lived, the one thing he has continually learned is that good men are hard to come by; what a waste it would be to take a life such as Shiro’s.

The sun isn’t down yet. His room has no windows - for which he’s quite grateful - but his inate perception of time tells him the sunset is near. Keith opens the door to the small room where he’s slept, and stares down the hallway ahead of him. Shiro is nowhere to be seen. The nave of the church waits for him at the opposite end. There is a faint and colorful glow in the room - a mix of what he assumes is candlelight and the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows on the walls. Figuring the filtration of the dying sunlight should be safe for him, Keith heads down the hall and towards the heart of the church.

The room is empty, as he’d expected, and every step he takes echoes and bounces off the walls. He takes it all in with admiration; it’s been ages since Keith has been inside a church. Not because of any mythical aversion, but because the church is often less than welcoming to people like him. Churches are not his favorite places to be, but their beauty is undeniable: stained glass windows, beautiful candle features and organs, incredible architecture that takes him back to a century he’s all but forgotten.

He moves through the aisles, weaving through the rows of pews, before circling his way back to the center aisle and heading up to the pulpit. Front and center is a large crucifix, with their savior strung up to its frame. Keith stares at it for a moment, a mixture of disgust and admiration building in his gut, but his focus is interrupted by the sound of steady footsteps behind him.

He doesn’t have to turn his head to know who it is.

“I’m happy to see you up and moving.” Shiro’s voice reverberates across the walls, its gentle lilt a warm echo around Keith. “How are you feeling?”

Keith dares a glance at him over his shoulder. Shiro is back in his robe - this time a clean one. Keith is unsure if this is a new one or if Shiro had already washed the one from the night before, removed all evidence of Keith’s injury from its fabric.

“Better,” Keith says, turning his attention back to the crucifix, “Thanks to you.”

Shiro continues towards him, moving to stand at Keith’s side.

“And your injury?”

There is a sudden uncertainty in Shiro’s tone, as though he is asking about something he should not be. Or as though he is nervous about what Keith might tell him.

“It’s doing well,” Keith tells him. The honesty comes naturally, but there’s still a sense of dread in his chest that Shiro’s fear will show itself. That Shiro will see just how unnatural he is and will retaliate with the same terror as the mobs in the towns. “Though, it probably needs a bandage change.”

Shiro nods, and for a moment, Keith cannot read what he is feeling. But Shiro cocks his head towards the sleeping area, a wordless invitation for Keith to follow him.

Once back in the room, Shiro instructs Keith to lie on the bed as he had the night before. This time, Shiro doesn’t kneel on the floor by the side of the bed; instead, he sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress. His hip presses against Keith’s thigh; it’s a gentle warmth that radiates through Keith’s chilled flesh. Shiro lifts Keith’s torn up shirt and steadily begins to peel up the edges of the dark, bloodied bandage. The injured flesh is almost fully uncovered when Shiro suddenly startles, the bandage slipping from his grip and falling back over the wound.  

Keith knows exactly what he’s seen.

He watches as Shiro gulps, swallowing whatever hesitation and nervousness has taken up residence in his throat, and returns to the dressing. Uneasy, trembling fingers peel back the bandage again, removing it completely this time.

Beneath it, flesh that had been mangled, raw, exposed and minced just hours before was now all but healed. New, pink scar tissue has begun to forge itself across the wound, the injury almost a memory in its wake. There are a few lingering lacerations here and there, a couple slices of exposed meat, with dark purple bruising around them, but aside from those areas, the damage is mostly healed.

“Oh my God,” Shiro mutters to himself, his hands coming to rest on the skin around the wound.

Keith dares an uncomfortable chuckle.

“I thought priests weren’t supposed to say that.”

Shiro doesn’t acknowledge his comment. He keeps his hands on Keith’s skin, tracing around the wound, around the new, pink scar tissue, around the few remaining cuts that mar his flesh. Keith is suddenly very aware of the burning heat of Shiro’s hands touching him, of the nervousness beginning to bubble in Keith’s chest.

“This is not… This isn’t possible.” Shiro’s words stumble out, his eyes fixated on the tissue in front of him in disbelief. “This injury…”

“Is doing better,” Keith interrupts, “Like I said…”

“Keith,” Shiro says, lifting his gaze to meet Keith’s eyes, “How is… How is this already…”

Keith stares back at him. Shakes his head.

“Please, don’t make me answer that.”

“No man heals like this, no-no wound heals this swiftly…”

“You’re right.”

Keith shouldn’t be honest, but there is something deep in his gut that tells him not to lie. Shiro’s hands are a heated weight across his body, his gentle touch an anvil atop Keith that urges candor from his core. An urge that will not let him hide from Shiro.

Plus, what else can he say?

Shiro lifts his trembling hands off of Keith’s body and Keith longs for the touch of them as soon as it is gone. But Shiro doesn’t pull away completely; he keeps his hands hovering over the wound. There is longing in them; an ache to touch again fighting a gut instinct to recoil. He shakes his head.

“No mortal man could have survived this,” Shiro tells him - the same thing he’d said the night before - and swallows thickly,, “No…. no mortal man can heal this way.”

“I know.”

Shiro looks at him again. His stare is so focused, it sends sends a wave of unease to Keith’s core. Shiro looks him over, just as he had the night before. He takes in Keith’s too-long teeth that gleam just past his lips, takes in his eyes and the strange, unnatural vibrancy that lives within them. Shiro inhales a long breath.

 _He understands_ , Keith thinks to himself.  _He knows_.

Shiro might have understood last night, though perhaps had not put all the pieces together. Perhaps he had not yet grasped the full extent of the thing he had chosen to house within his church. But he does now, and Keith can see the dawning realization spreading across his face.

Shiro draws his hands away from Keith and tucks them into his lap. He isn’t trembling anymore but he laces his fingers together, keeps them clenched around each other like knots in string. He swallows again.

“You aren’t, are you?” Shiro whispers, unable to look anywhere but down at his hands. “Mortal?”

Keith pauses.

 _Lie_ , he thinks.  _Lie and maybe you can spare his life._

But he can’t. He doesn’t want to.

“No,” he responds after a few extended beats, “At least, I haven’t been for a long time.”

The truth.

A truth he hasn’t spoken to a human in decades, possibly even centuries. Keith can’t even remember how long it’s been since he’s said it aloud.

Shiro remains tight-lipped and silent. He doesn’t even look at Keith.

Keith sits up on the bed to bring himself even with Shiro. He keeps his motions slow, careful not to jostle the mattress as he moves, as though Shiro might bolt at any moment. Their thighs are pressed together still - Shiro’s body and heat is a strangely comforting presence amid the straining tension between them.

“Does that frighten you?” Keith asks him.

Shiro sucks in a long, low breath, and looks up. He meets Keith’s gaze head on and shakes his head ‘no’ with determination.

“I told you already… I am not afraid of you.”

“Do you know what I am?”

It’s an honest question. Because Shiro has an idea - Shiro knows that Keith is so very different from him, different from his own mortality - but if that idea has a name? Keith doesn’t know.

Shiro nods. Purses his lips. Opens his mouth to speak.

“A ghoul… A-a vamp-”

Keith doesn’t let him finish.

“You don’t have to say it,” Keith tells him before the word can leave his lips. Keith shakes his head. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say it.”

Keith tilts his head, keeping his eyes locked with Shiro’s. He isn’t sure why, but he lifts his hand and rests it atop Shiro’s thigh, never breaking their gaze. Even through the thick fabric of his robe, Shiro is warm beneath Keith’s chilled hand. His leg is hardened sinew and muscle, his blood pumps hard and heavy through the engorged artery that runs the length of it. Want flares in a quick burst inside of Keith, desire and hunger blending together in a heated rush that spans the entirety of his body. Keith releases a shaky breath.

Shiro doesn’t react to the touch, but he doesn’t break their gaze either. He licks his lips, and Keith is suddenly very aware of their fullness - how red and plush they are, how enticing they appear.

  
The pounding rush of Shiro’s blood echoes through his head. Every increase in the race of Shiro’s heartbeat is a pulsing beat in Keith’s ears, and it shakes him to his core. He tries not to, but his breath shudders and he leans closer, bridging the gap between the two of them by a meager inch.

But Shiro doesn’t budge.

Keith doesn’t push farther, allows Shiro the space between them. But Shiro’s eyes are unwavering in their focus on him. There is a connection in their stare, a sense of understanding that flickers between them, and Keith, for an instant, isn’t sure if he’s imagining it or not. But he feels it, somewhere deep and unspoken within his chest, he feels it.

Shiro understands. Shiro is unafraid… welcoming, even, to something like him. Shiro stares this monster in the face without a hint of reservation; he allowed this ghoul to roam across his hallowed threshold without question or hesitation. Whatever connection lives between them, Keith cannot be imagining it.

Shiro swallows. Out of his periphery, Keith can sense the way the muscles and tendons of Shiro’s neck tense and release as he does, his adam’s apple bobbing with the weight of whatever thoughts are stuck in his throat.

Keith removes his hand from Shiro’s thigh and cups Shiro’s jaw instead. He expects Shiro to flinch at the touch, or to at least shy away from it, but he doesn’t. He allows Keith to touch him, allows his hand to linger where it pleases without fear or hesitation. His fingers cradle the sharp angles of Shiro’s jaw before they lower to span across the length of Shiro’s throat.  

Shiro lets him.

His pulse is heavy beneath Keith’s hand, and for once, Keith cannot tell if it is fear or desire that lingers just beneath the skin. But he believes Shiro when he tells him he is not afraid. He doesn’t tremble under Keith’s touch, doesn’t shy away from him, he allows him to grip his neck almost like an invitation. A dare. A showing of bravery in the face of a creature Shiro does not understand, as if telling Keith  _“you could kill me, if you wanted, but you won’t”._

Like he knows Keith doesn’t want to.

Keith inhales a shaking breath and drops his hand. And with that, the moment is over. Shiro breaks their gaze, dropping his sights to where his hands are still carefully clenched in his lap. Shiro breathes long and low before pushing to stand up from the bed. 

“Excuse me, I need to…” Shiro doesn’t finish the thought.

And without another word, he leaves.

**::**

Keith waits at least an hour before he goes in search of Shiro. The sun has faded by now, and the moon has begun its rise. But the night is still early, and Keith has resolved that he will leave before it is over. If only to be out of Shiro’s hair.  

Keith stands from the bed and attempts to straighten out his shredded shirt. It’s all but destroyed on the lower left side, ripped and rended beyond repair from the shotgun’s flak. The pale cream of his mostly-healed flesh is visible through it’s tears - but he figures it will suffice until he can find another town to settle into, a town where he can start over.

He isn’t sure what compels him to go find Shiro, just a tickling feeling in his gut that tells him that he should. That he should at least inform Shiro that he will be leaving. Keith finds him in the nave, knelt down before the altar in prayer. Keith notes he’s not wearing his robes anymore - donned now in his casual clothing. It’s a wonderful sight, and Keith can’t quite explain the warmth it brings him to see. His feet make no noise as he approaches the altar, but Shiro does not appear startled or surprised when Keith kneels down beside him at the altar. Keith does not interrupt as Shiro continues his silent prayer, waiting until Shiro gives the okay to speak. When he finishes, he turns to face Keith, but does not stand.

Keith inhales a long breath and sighs; he feels oddly small beneath the weight of Shiro’s stare this time.

“I just wanted to let you know I’ll be leaving tonight.”

Shiro blinks and pushes himself up to stand. He offers his hand out to Keith to help him stand as well. Keith doesn’t need his assistance, but he takes Shiro’s hand anyway. Shiro pulls him to his feet and shakes his head ‘no’.

“You don’t have to leave,” Shiro assures him.

“I’ve… burdened you enough,” Keith mumbles with an uncomfortable tilt of his head. He glances away from Shiro’s face but notes that Shiro has not yet released his hand.

“You haven’t burdened me.”

“The night’s still early. There’s plenty of time. I can make it to a neighboring town before sunrise.”

“Mmm. And what do you plan to do when you get there?”

Keith shrugs.

“Start over. Reestablish and linger for as long as I can. Just as I have done a hundred times before.”

Shiro nods - it’s not an agreement, merely an acknowledgement of his understanding - and hums softly. An expression that Keith cannot place spans Shiro’s face in a matter of seconds; but if he looks hard enough, Keith would almost swear it seems like sadness.

He’s sure he’s imagining it.

Shiro exhales a low breath.

“Keith, don’t go,” Shiro reiterates. He pauses and licks his lips before clarifying, “I don’t need nor do I  _want_ you to go.”

Keith furrows his brow. He’s tempted to question him, because he cannot understand why Shiro would not wish to be rid of him as quickly as possible. But he keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t question Shiro’s words. Instead, in the silence, he turns his gaze to the altar and stares up at the crucifix.

“What were you praying about?” He asks.

Shiro follows his gaze and stares at the crucifix as well.

“I sought… guidance. Understanding. I asked to know what the right thing to do was.”

“And? Did the big guy answer?”

“You knelt by my side as I asked Him,” Shiro tells Keith, “that was answer enough for me.”

Keith jerks his head back to stare at Shiro. There is a small smile tugging at the corners of Shiro’s lips, almost playful, contented. It’s a far cry from the somber tension that had line the creases of his face mere hours ago. Keith furrows his brow at the expression, taken aback by Shiro’s sudden candor, but he doesn’t question it. A few beats pass between them before Shiro finally cranes his head to look at Keith again. He gestures up towards the crucifix that hangs above the altar.

“Do these… not bother you? I uh, I thought…”

Keith smiles - the first time in what feels like ages - and shakes his head. He steps close to Shiro and reaches for the small crucifix that dangles around his neck.

“These?” He asks, cradling the charm between his fingers. “No. Not usually, at least. They’re just trinkets. Valuable ones, yes, of course. But trinkets, nonetheless."

Shiro furrows his brow.

“It’s just a shape, Shiro,” Keith continues, “It has power and value because you ascribed that power to it, but on its own? What can it do? I don’t believe it will hurt me, so it doesn’t. Though… I suppose if you truly wished for it to harm me, perhaps it could, but…”

“But I do not wish that.”

Keith smiles and nods. He lets go of the cross around Shiro’s neck, careful not to allow his hand to linger too long at Shiro’s throat before he drops his arm back to his side.

“Will you stay?” Shiro asks him after another moment passes. Keith tilts his head.

“You truly are not afraid of me?”

“You have given me no reason to be. You came to me in need of help; you have been kind. You have not harmed me. Why should I fear a kind man?”

Keith blinks and gives a brief shake of his head. He lifts his hand to palm along the back of his neck.

“Most people do.”

There are a few long, almost agonizing, moments when Shiro says nothing at all. The two of them stand together in front of the altar, the silence a veil that hangs between them. Shiro lets out a long sigh and diverts his gaze to the ground.

“I certainly do not fear you, Keith. But I also don’t understand this… affliction.”

Keith furrows his brow and suddenly the unseen veil between them feels thicker still. He takes a half step back, puts an extra few inches between himself and Shiro. But Shiro doesn’t let him. Shiro lifts his gaze, soft but focused as it always is, and steps forward to eliminate the distance Keith has just created.

“I struggle to comprehend it, Keith,” Shiro clarifies before taking another step closer to Keith. Keith doesn’t move back this time, craning his head up to keep his gaze locked with Shiro’s.

Shiro’s eyes take him in - searching the expanse of his face, his eyes, the lines on his lips where his fangs have spent eternity digging into the flesh. Keith feels exposed in a way he hasn’t in a century, and he doesn’t know how to rectify the sudden flash of emotion that flares in his chest.

Shiro sighs again. He’s close enough that Keith can feel the warmth of his breath against his face.

“I see goodness in you,” Shiro tells him, “true goodness. There is warmth and kindness in your eyes in a way that is hard to fake. And I don’t…”

 _Don’t understand how a creature like me could ever be good_ , Keith thinks to himself.

“I don’t understand how such a curse could befall an innocent.”

Keith chuckles - a dry and sardonic sound that reverberates across the empty nave. The tone of Shiro’s voice is one of conviction; he believes what he’s said, and Keith can’t help but ache for him and his naivety. Keith shakes his head in a visceral ‘no’.

“You’re wrong, Father.”

“ _Shiro_ ,” he corrects.

“You’re wrong,” Keith repeats, not acknowledging Shiro’s wish to be addressed by his name. “I’m not… I don’t know what you think you’ve seen in me, but ‘innocent’ is not a word people use describe me.”

“People are wrong.”

Another empty laugh ekes past Keith’s lips and he forces his gaze to the floor.

“‘Innocent’ is not a word your god would use to describe me, either.”

Shiro tilts his head.

“So perhaps He is wrong, as well.”

The look of shock on Keith’s face must be obvious, because Shiro flashes a brief smirk before his face softens once again.

“You’re a priest,” Keith says, flabbergasted, “Are you even  _allowed_ to say that?”

“Perhaps not. But that ‘god’ you speak of brought you here, brought you to me, to my care.” Shiro pauses and tilts his head, a reflective look come to rest on his face. “So maybe he doesn’t think as ill of you as you believe him to.”

“Father,” Keith starts and pauses with a sigh. This feels like he’s in confession. “ _Shiro_. I have done… horrible things in the decades, the centuries, I have lived. I will do horrible things again, and will do so without remorse. I have-”

“You have done what you must to survive,” Shiro interrupts. “Is that not what every man must do? Do we not fight to survive with the tools, with the lot that we have been given?”

Keith wants to respond, but in the moment, as he stares up at Shiro’s face, he has no words. Shiro is calm, his expression gentle and filled with understanding that Keith simply cannot comprehend. But the warmth in his eyes is enough to make heat radiate through Keith’s otherwise chilled skin. Keith opens his mouth to speak, but stops himself short, and closes his mouth again. His fangs bear down into his lower lip, the pressure a familiar sensation that grounds him to this moment.

“I suppose,” Keith mumbles after a few extended moments.

Shiro’s hand rests on his shoulder, fingers squeezing the muscles gently.

“Don’t leave, Keith. Stay… for as long as you like.”

Keith drags his tongue across his lips.

“Okay.”

Shiro gives his shoulders another squeeze and slides his hands down. His eyes follow suit, landing on the tattered fabric of Keith’s shirt. His fingers play with the ends of the fray, his fingertips graze Keith’s skin.

“Come,” Shiro hums, “I have a few spare shirts you can have, if you would like.”

Keith nods, hyper-focused on the ghostly tickle of Shiro’s touch.

“That would be nice.”

**::**

The two of them head back towards the hallway that leads to the back bedroom where Shiro has so graciously housed Keith. But rather than head to the end of the hallway where the room is located, Shiro enters a door on the left side of the hallway instead. Keith hadn’t even noticed this door; he can only assume it must be Shiro’s private quarters.

The room is small and modest, but appears to be plenty enough for Shiro. There’s a desk on one side of the room, with papers strewn across its surface, and a dresser and cot on the other side. The cot is narrow, just like the ones in the back bedroom, but longer: to accommodate Shiro’s height, Keith assumes. The walls are mostly bare, save for a few pieces of paper that Shiro has hung, all inked in neat, pristine cursive. Prayers, most likely, but Keith doesn’t lean in to read any of them. There are no photographs or paintings, no likenesses of family or loved ones that Keith can see. There is an air of loneliness here, and he wonders if it bothers Shiro.

“Is it usually just you here?” Keith asks as Shiro begins to sift through one of the dresser drawers.

“Ah… yes, typically. Sometimes the archbishops will come by, but usually it’s just me.”

“Is it lonely?”

Shiro pauses for a brief second before he pulls out a couple of shirts from the drawer. He shrugs.

“Sometimes… Yes.”

There is a certain distance and bleakness in Shiro’s reply. Keith understands. He’s no stranger to isolation, nor is he unfamiliar with the effects it can have on the soul. And he has to wonder if perhaps the two of them have needed each other’s company. If perhaps if he was meant to come across this church, if he was meant to be taken in by this man.  

Shiro turns back around, a few shirts in his hand, and hands them to Keith.

“They might be a bit big… but it’ll be better than what you’ve got, I imagine.”

Keith smiles and nods as he takes the clothing. He places two of the shirts on Shiro’s desk and holds onto the third. Without thinking, he yanks his tattered shirt up over his head, stripping it off his body. As he does, Shiro flushes hot and red in his cheeks and spins around to look away.  

“Oh, sorry,” Keith mumbles, noting Shiro’s apparent embarrassment, and pulls the new shirt on.

“Th-that’s alright,” Shiro tells him, “Just uh, wanted to give you a little privacy.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m good now.”

Shiro nods and turns back around. Keith hadn’t needed the privacy, but he also doesn’t want to make Shiro uncomfortable.

The shirt is a bit baggy, hanging long and loose across Keith’s chest. Shiro smiles when he sees him and steps in closer. With an uneasy hand, Shiro reaches up and fiddles with Keith’s sleeve, noting how far down the sleeves fall on his biceps.

“It is a bit baggy,” Shiro tells him with a smile.

Keith just nods.

The two of them stand there for an extended moment, Shiro still toying with the end of Keith’s sleeve, his fingers intermittently grazing Keith’s skin. Silence hangs between them and Keith is honestly not sure if it’s a comfortable silence or not; he’s inclined to believe that it’s comfortable. Keith doesn’t know why this man has welcomed him with open arms, even after he’d learned of Keith’s true nature. In all his years, he has never met anyone who has so readily accepted him, who has shown no terror of the monster that he is.

He would happily stay as long as Shiro would have him.

But after another moment, Shiro clears his throat and drops his hand. He takes a half step back, putting a few extra inches between them.

“Ah, if you’ll forgive me, Keith, I should probably get some rest. It’s late.”

A quick flash of embarrassment flares in Keith’s chest. It is  _quite_ late, the moon high in the sky by now, and Keith had entirely forgotten that Shiro’s sleeping schedule was not the same as his own. He’d forgotten, if only for a moment, that Shiro is human.

Hell, for a moment, Keith had almost forgotten that he, himself, is  _not_.

This is a sudden reminder that, despite whatever closeness he feels right now, and despite whatever understanding Shiro has shown him, the two of them still exist in separate places.

Keith forces a smile and nods, and also takes a half step away from Shiro.

“Oh, yes, of course, I’m sorry. I’ll uh, I’ll leave you be.” He backs up towards the door to the bedroom and snags the other two shirts off Shiro’s desk. “Thank you for the shirt…”

Shiro smiles a tender smile and nods.

“Goodnight, Keith.”

“Goodnight, Shiro.”

**::**

Rather than return to his room, Keith spends the next couple hours in the nave. The room is dark, illuminated only by the moonlight that pools in through the stained glass windows. Keith settles into the pews and stares up at the great crucifix hanging above the altar, and wonders why he’s still here.

He is grateful that Shiro took him in, that Shiro welcomed him and helped him without a moment’s hesitation. But he should have left by now. There is nothing left for him here anymore, and it is in his best interest to continue his travels and to get as far away from this town as possible. But despite that, he hasn’t left, and he isn’t sure exactly why he’s stayed.  

 _Because Shiro asked you to_ , he thinks to himself.

 _Because you_ **_wanted_ ** _to stay._

Keith shakes his head and sighs. He leans his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. He’s weak, still. He hasn’t fed in days and he’s hungry, and he wonders if perhaps this is why his thoughts feel so jumbled. With a long sigh, Keith rubs his face and looks back up at the altar.

“Why am I here?” He asks the crucifix.

But the crucifix doesn’t reply.

Outside the window to his left, he hears a bit of rustling and an animalistic chittering. Keith perks up and listens more intently. A few more chirps and mewls ring out, and Keith realizes its a racoon - or perhaps a couple - and he figures an animal’s blood is better than no blood at all. He turns his attention back to the crucifix and sighs.

“Forgive me,” he mumbles to the cross, all but apologizing for his existence. Then he stands and heads out the door of the church.

**::**

Racoon blood, or any animal’s blood, is always less than satisfying. But in a pinch, it’s enough to get Keith through a few days without incident. The fresh blood coursing through him revitalizes and calms him, and he returns to the back bedroom feeling moderately better than he had just an hour before.

The sun will be up soon. There’s no clock in the back bedroom, but he knows the sunrise is drawing nearer. It would do him well to rest. Full and somewhat sated, Keith settles down onto the cot and lets himself drift off into sleep. The last thing he remembers is thinking that Shiro would likely be waking soon.

Keith doesn’t know how long he sleeps before a gentle knock on the door stirs him back to wakefulness. It’s at least been a couple hours. It’s bound to still be daylight, perhaps still early in the morning, judging by the weariness that weighs heavy on his body. Despite it, he pushes up on the mattress to his elbows and rubs his eyes.

“Come in,” he mumbles.

There’s a pause before the door cracks open. Shiro slips inside the room through the barely-ajar doorway and shuts it behind him with a soft click. He’s dressed in loose pants and a somewhat too-big sleep shirt - it’s pale white, his pink flesh a radiant color beneath it. The sight of him sends a quick flash of heat into Keith’s gut.

“Shiro? What time is it?”

“It’s still early…” Shiro whispers, taking a few steps into the room and closer to Keith’s cot. “The day’s just barely begun.”

Keith starts to sit up more fully, but Shiro shakes his head and approaches the side of Keith’s bed.

“Don’t get up. Like I said… it’s early still.”

Shiro eases down to sit on the edge of Keith’s bed. Without thinking, Keith inches over to give him more room. Their thighs press against each other - the warmth of Shiro’s body is a stark contrast to the sleep-riddled chill of Keith’s own. The touch brings Keith back to the night before, floods him with a wealth of feelings he doesn’t know how to categorize.

There is something painful and intimate in this moment, a heady weight lingering in the air between them. Shiro seems uneasy but resolute, and no matter how Keith scans his face, he can’t seem to pinpoint what exactly Shiro is feeling. Shiro stares down at Keith, and Keith, still braced on his elbows, stares back up at him. With a low breath, Shiro lifts his right arm and rests it across Keith’s abdomen. His hand settles atop the spot where Keith’s wound had been.

Shiro’s fingers curl slightly, the tips catching and hitching the fabric of Keith’s shirt as they do. It’s almost as if they’re trying to feel the flesh underneath, touching like a blind man to feel the skin that had been gnarled and mangled just a couple nights before.

“Does it still hurt?” Shiro asks, and Keith doesn’t miss the quiver in his voice.

Keith shakes his head.

“No. Especially not beneath  _your_ hand.”

It’s a bold statement and Keith doesn’t know why he says it. The minute the words pass his lips, he wishes he could take them back. But Shiro doesn’t seem to mind: he sucks in a long breath and lifts his eyes to meet Keith’s. His hand rubs once again across Keith’s abdomen. He presses his fingers across the flesh, massaging along Keith’s side before his hand slips back to the middle so he can ease it up along Keith’s chest.

“Shiro…” Keith hums.

Shiro doesn’t stop his movements. He leans down close as his hand continues to explore. It trails up Keith’s chest, his sternum, up along the bony line of his collar, before finally coming to rest on the curve of Keith’s throat. Keith wonders if perhaps he’s waiting to feel a pulse, a pulse he’ll never find.

Their faces are but a few inches apart now and the warmth of Shiro’s body so near to his own is almost overwhelming. Shiro’s eyes are heavy-lidded as they stare down at him. Keith licks his lips, tries to quell the shiver that titters up his spine under Shiro’s gaze.  

“Forgive me,” Shiro whispers - to God? to Keith? Keith doesn't know - before leaning in to claim Keith’s mouth in a kiss.

At the touch of Shiro’s lips, Keith can only suck in a startled breath. But his eyes slip closed of their own volition, falling into the soft sensation of Shiro’s mouth against his. The touch is chaste and soft at first. They purse together, closed-lipped and tentative as Shiro’s hand cradles the curve of Keith’s neck. Keith doesn’t mean to, but he whimpers beneath the warm conviction of Shiro’s touch.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wonders if Shiro can taste the blood of the animal he’d slaughtered just hours before. Keith knows he can’t - but the thought lingers nonetheless.

Keith knows he should stop this, but he can’t bring himself to. Instead, he lingers in the heat of Shiro’s kiss for as long he can. In the end, it’s Shiro who pulls away first. He pulls away a fraction of an inch, their lips separating with a gentle peck, but makes sure to stay close to Keith’s mouth.

Shiro’s heartbeat rings in Keith’s ears - pounding and racing, hard and heavy in his chest - it’s intoxicating. Its vivacious pulses go straight to Keith’s gut and it takes everything in him to not crane up and claim Shiro’s mouth again. Instead, he clears his throat, forces himself to swallow the thick lump that has grown there, and tries to ignore the heady heat of Shiro’s body so close to his own.

“Shiro,” Keith croaks, “What-”

“Keith,” Shiro cuts him off, “I don’t… fully understand what it is I feel for you. I don’t even fully understand what you are. But I don’t have to understand it to know that there is something brewing deep inside me… Affection, care, desire, I don’t know, but I know it is there, and I trust what I feel.”

Shiro pauses and licks his lips. He pushes away a bit more, puts another inch or so between himself and Keith, if only so he can look at Keith more clearly. But the minute the distance is there, Keith longs for the closeness again.

“I believe you were brought to me for a reason,” Shiro continues, “And I… There is goodness in you, so much so that it is almost overwhelming to me. Despite whatever the world has led you to believe, despite whatever you have done, or will do. You are… a good soul.”

Keith closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“You’re wro-”

“I’m  _not_ ,” Shiro corrects before Keith can even finish his protestation.

Something flares then deep in Keith’s chest - a white, hot mixture of emotion he cannot quite pinpoint. Frustration, indignation, anguish, desire, hunger. He snarls and in the blink of an eye, he has his hands on Shiro’s neck. Before Shiro can even react, Keith has flipped their positions and has pinned Shiro back against the mattress, his hand flush around Shiro’s throat, legs straddled across his waist.

Despite his physique, Shiro seems small beneath him. The strength Keith possesses is enough to dwarf any man, and something tells him Shiro already knows that. His grip on Shiro’s neck is firm but not overbearing. It’s enough to let Shiro know he’s in control, but not enough to harm him.

“Why do you not fear me? Why do not view me with disgust or contempt like the others?” Keith demands. Lips parted, he makes sure Shiro can see the white tips of his fangs as he glares down at him.

“Because I do not, is that not reason enough?” Shiro tells him without an ounce of hesitation, “Do you wish for me to?”

Keith snaps his mouth closed and stares down at him.  

“I could kill you, you know?” It’s not a threat, but he makes sure to tighten his grasp around Shiro’s throat, “Right this moment, before you could even think to fight, I could take you.”

Shiro doesn’t move beneath Keith’s grip, but he stares back up at him with conviction.

“Of course you could,” Shiro affirms, “But you don’t want to.”

He says it with conviction. He says it like it’s obvious.

Perhaps it is.

Keith stares into Shiro’s eyes and lets out a shaky breath. Shiro is broad and warm beneath him - muscled body heated and sanguine. He loosens his fingers around Shiro’s neck - firm grasp relaxing to a tender hold - and he shakes his head. He curls his fingers slightly, his fingertips and nails drag against Shiro’s flushed skin. Shiro’s pulse is racing, but it isn’t from fear, and Keith knows that.

Keith shakes his head ‘no’ again and leans down close to Shiro. Their chests press flush together as Keith’s lips claim Shiro’s in a heady kiss. Shiro is the first to open his mouth - tongue tentative but searching for the touch of Keith’s, and Keith meets him in the middle.

At the touch of Shiro’s tongue, Keith’s grip on Shiro’s neck tighten once again His fingers press into the meat of Shiro’s throat, not to harm him, but rather to feel him. Keith aches to feel the rush of the blood beneath his skin. He wants to savor the way the muscle and tendons flex and tighten each time Shiro tilts his head or cranes up to meet Keith’s mouth with fervor.

Every pulse that pounds beneath Keith’s hand is electrifying. Shiro’s blood calls to him. He could easily dig his teeth into the meat of that neck, pierce the skin, and taste the richness of the iron that courses through Shiro’s body. But he doesn’t want that, no matter what his instincts tell him.

Because Shiro is right - he  _doesn’t_ want to harm him.

He wants to have him, to  _know_ him. He wants to protect Shiro in the same way Shiro has protected him.

Keith doesn’t know why he’s doing this, why  _they_ are doing this, besides some desperate burning inside them both that tells them that they should. He doesn’t know why Shiro has protected him, accepted him, cared for him. He doesn’t understand why Shiro wants him; perhaps Shiro doesn’t understand it either.

But for the moment, it doesn’t seem to matter.

Whatever this will mean when they are done, whatever will remain for them after they’ve satisfied the desires that eat them from the inside out, Keith finds it difficult to care. Shiro is warm beneath him. He is a creature built from affection and tenderness and life, and Keith will have him for as long as Shiro allows.

Perhaps when they are finished, when they have snapped out of the haze, Shiro will come to his senses. Perhaps he will recoil in disgust and betrayal, and will expel Keith with the same immediacy he had when he took him in. But for now, Keith will savor him. He will relish in the fog of love that has filled this room.

Their motions are neither skilled nor graceful - fumbling against each other in desperation  - but it hardly seems to matter. In the back of his head, thoughts of Shiro’s possible celibacy flitter in, but the thoughts are gone the moment Shiro’s hands - large and commanding - take hold of his hips. Before Keith knows it, Shiro has turned them over and has nestled himself between Keith’s open legs.

They remain clothed and in the urgency, Keith hardly has time to think it unfair. Full of want and need, Keith draws Shiro into him. His hands wrap around Shiro’s middle, hands splaying across the small of Shiro’s back. Arms planted on either side of Keith’s head, Shiro kisses him slow and deep, tongue exploring, dragging along the sharpened tips of Keith’s fangs as it does so. Fingernails digging into Shiro’s back, Keith’s hands urge his hips to move. Whatever experience they may or may not have seems irrelevant; Shiro’s hips roll in even, firm thrusts, perfect and exactly what Keith needs. Each motion fills him with exhilaration, fills him with a burning sense of belonging that he hasn’t felt in years.

It’s the first time in god knows how long that he’s felt like someone wanted him. That someone cared.

He could survive for rest of his life on this feeling alone, if Shiro would allow him to do so.

They hardly speak, little more than soft grunts and groans slipping past their teeth. Words are lost in kisses and uneven breaths; they move against each other as though they were always meant to come together like this. Shiro grinds down into him and Keith thrusts up to meet him every time until the burning in his blood bubbles beneath his skin. Shiro buries his face in Keith’s neck, mouths and nibbles along the line of his throat, and it’s vaguely reminiscent of centuries past when his humanity was stripped away.

It feels like an eternity, and feels like an instant. And it’s over far too soon, the edge of climax approaching before Keith is ready for this to end. But he can’t hold himself back. He’s touch-starved, so hungry for Shiro’s affection, greedy for every sensation Shiro will allow him. He has to wonder if Shiro has craved touch like this just as much as Keith has. Isolation is something he knows the two of them have become far too accustomed to. Finding understanding from another creature, in a world of solitude, is like a light in the darkness. Keith wants to cling to the light for as long as he can and the way Keith’s name sidles off Shiro’s lips when he comes is enough to tell Keith that Shiro needed this just as badly. The way he peppers kisses across Keith’s throat in the afterglow tells Keith that Shiro wants to hold onto that light as well.

Hesitant, Shiro eases off of Keith to lie beside him. Keith is half afraid that Shiro will get up and leave, or demand that Keith leave at once, kicking him out in the daylight to burn. But he doesn’t. Instead, he wraps an arm around Keith and ushers him closer, urging Keith’s head to rest atop his chest.

They rest in silence, the only sound Shiro’s steadily slowing heartbeat. Keith lets himself focus on it, relishes in the sound, and tries not to overthink in the quiet. But he can’t stop himself. He cannot help but wonder if this was a mistake brought about by lust and confusion, can’t help but wonder if the affection between them will be gone just as quickly as it arose.

Fingers curling across Shiro’s chest, Keith traces idle patterns into the fabric of Shiro’s shirt before he breaks the silence.

“Shiro. Was this… was this a mistake?”

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Keith wonders if he’d tricked Shiro. Seduced him somehow, drawn him in with whatever allure he possesses. But it doesn’t feel like that - this doesn’t feel like the times he’s lured someone to him for an easy meal. He’d yearned for Shiro, something more than physical, more than blood, and he wonders if Shiro feels the same.

He’s not asking if they should or shouldn’t have done what they did; the tenderness and concern in Shiro’s expression already answers that question for him.  No, Keith is asking - without  _truly_ asking - if this was sincere. If they both wanted this or if they had been swept up in the moment, touch-starved and desperate for the comfort of affection. Regardless of from whom, or what, that affection came.

“Of course not,” Shiro hums without hesitation.

“I mean, do you regret…. anything?”

_Do you regret sleeping with me? Caring for me? Helping me? Opening your door for me? Do you regret that I came to you at all._

“God brought you to my doorstep, He brought us together for a reason. I regret nothing.”

Keith doesn’t know if he believes in God, or if there is a god, he doesn’t know how much he trusts him. But the conviction and calmness of Shiro’s response is reassuring. Keith doesn’t reply, but he nods and lets his head rest against Shiro’s chest. Shiro plays idly with his hair, twirling the strands around his fingers.

“There is plenty of daylight left, Keith. You should rest.”

“And you?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Okay.”

Keith drifts off more quickly than he’d expected to. Shiro is a solid presence against his body. The warmth of him is a comfort Keith is unused to, but he takes solace in it nonetheless. The last thing he hears before he fades into sleep is Shiro’s steady heartbeat and Shiro’s soft voice, urging him to rest.

Rest he does.

**::**

When Keith wakes, it is not to the arrival of the night, but to the booming sound of pounding against church doors. He startles awake, as does Shiro. Shiro is the first one up, standing from the bed and straightening his hair out and heading towards the door. He snags a spare robe that rests at the end of one of the other cots and tugs it on, along with his shoes, before turning back to the Keith.

“Wait here, I’ll be back.”

Keith nods, but hops out of bed as soon as Shiro is out the door. He creeps to the closed door, cracking it as quietly as he can. From down the hall in the nave, the church door creaks open, and hears Shiro greet whomever is there.There is a low rumble of idle conversation, a few voices that Keith cannot quite distinguish. But the hollow chatter does not last for long. Within a moment, a sudden thud echoes through the church - the door slamming open - followed by a cacophony of raised voices.

Shiro grunts - a painful sound that sends white, hot anger coursing under Keith’s skin.

 _“Where is he, Father?”_ a masculine voice booms.

 _“Please,”_ Shiro pleads,  _“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”_

 _“That abomination,”_ another shouts,  _“we know he’s here, there’s a trail that leads right to your door. Now tell us where you’re hiding him!”_

_“I hide nothing and no one!”_

Keith fumbles with his shoes as he listens to the fevered shouts from the apse. Dread pools in his gut, sudden terror that the mob that has found him will harm Shiro for aiding him.

_“His blood still stains the steps of your church; we know he has been here. Tell us where he is.”_

Another firm thud followed by a grunt that Keith knows came from Shiro. Keith eases the door open enough so that he can slip out, and creeps down the hall as quietly as he can. He stops short only when he hears Shiro’s voice.

His words are tense and heavy, obviously pained from whatever blow the mob has landed on him. But in his tone, there is force and resolution when he speaks.

_“You will not touch him.”_

_“I knew he was here!”_ someone shouts.

_“Tell us where he is, Father, and we will relieve you of the burden he has brought upon you.”_

_"No."_

Keith inches further down the hallway. He draws near enough to the apse that he can see the crowd, but far enough away that the shadows of the darkened hall still give him cover. There is a crowd of at least 20 people there - more than had attacked him just a couple days prior. Shiro is on the floor, supported on hands and knees as he pushes himself back up to stand. The apse is barely lit. It’s still daylight outside but the sunset is almost upon them. The light that seeps in through the stained glass windows is minimal.  

Shiro stands up fully, and takes a couple steps from the group. His arm cradles his abdomen, and Keith knows that it has been hit or kicked. Keith is about to step forward into the apse, but a tall figure steps out from the crowd, closing the distance that Shiro has attempted to place between himself and the group.  

Keith recognizes him immediately - an older man with a pale and wrinkled face, gangly but overbearing in his stature. It’s the priest from the other church. He approaches Shiro with his arms open, as if to welcome Shiro back to holiness.

“Has he bewitched you? Has this creature led you so far from your teachings, my son?”

“You will not have him,” Shiro asserts again, not bothering to acknowledge the other priest’s accusatory questions.

“You consort with the devil!!” The priest shouts suddenly, his voice a booming echo across the nave.

“I protect an innocent!” Shiro yells back and dares an aggressive step closer to the mob. “I keep a good soul from harm.”

The group meets his step in kind, as much a threat in their movement as in Shiro’s, if not more so. It’s then that Keith exits the darkness of the hall that has hidden him. The entire mob’s eyes shift to him as soon as he’s emerged, but they do not approach him. Shiro turns his gaze to Keith, as well. The hardened, determined expression on his face softens to one of fondness as he lays eyes on Keith.

Keith does not smile, but he returns the gentle gaze briefly before turning his focus back on the small horde that has come for him. He stepwards forward and moves to stand at Shiro’s side, but Shiro does not allow it. He reaches a protective arm out and ushers Keith behind him.

“That  _thing_ ,” the priest sneers, flinging an accusing finger in Keith’s direction, “is no innocent. There is no soul left in it to harbor goodness, no matter what it has led you to believe. Stand. Aside.”

That’s when Keith notices the weapons in the mob’s hands. Knives clutched in their fists like crosses. There is someone in the crowd with a machete, another with a gun that Keith is far too acquainted with.

“No.” Shiro tells them without hesitation.

Keith places a hand on Shiro’s shoulder, squeezing into the muscle - partly for reassurance, partly to remind Shiro that he is with him, and partly to tell Shiro that he does not have to fight for him. Shiro cranes his head back and meets Keith’s gaze before turning his attention back to the approaching mob.

“You will not touch him so long as I stand.”

“Then you will stand no longer!” The other priest - full of ill-begotten righteousness - shouts at him.

Someone charges out of the mob and rushes towards Shiro. Keith doesn’t think as he snatches Shiro by the shoulder and yanks him backwards, pulling him away from the assailant. Keith meets them head on with nothing more than bare hands and brute strength.

The moment is a blur. It’s over so quickly Keith has trouble processing what exactly he’s done. Before he knows it, there is blood on the floor, splattered across a few shocked faces and bodies in front of him, and his would-be attacker’s movements have stilled. In Keith’s hand is what had once been a head - now mangled and marred, the flesh and tendon and veins ripped from bone and meat, separated from the body now lying limp on the floor.

An audible gasp sounds out from the crowd as they fumble over themselves to step away from Keith. A couple weapons clatter to the floor - their sharp sounds echo through the apse. Keith inhales a few shaking breaths to calm himself, but anger and righteous fury boil in his blood. He clenches his jaw.

“You attack a holy man on consecrated ground?” Keith hisses through clenched teeth. “You seek to harm him in a place of worship and refuge? And you  _dare_ to call yourselves men of God?!”

His last sentence is explosive, his voice fills the church, shakes across the walls with acrimony. The townsfolk in front of shakes, desperate to hold what little ground they believe they have, but he can see their resolve fading. Even the grizzled, old priest’s visage of courage is faltering.

The mangled, severed head in his hand is a bloodied mess. Its eyes are wide open in horror, mouth agape, and the ripped up flesh of his neck is slick and squishy against his fingers. Keith stares at it for a moment before turning his attention back to the crowd. He takes another threatening step towards them, and they retreat another step in kind. Without warning, Keith flings the head of their companion at them. Someone in the crowd lets out a scream as he hurls it; the head collides with one of their chests and tumbles to the group’s feet.

“Leave this place.  _Now_. Or you will join your friend here.” For emphasis, Keith kicks the body, sending it skittering across the stone floor towards the crowd, leaving splotches of blood in its wake. “And I, the devil  _himself_ , will take you to your fucking graves.” 

It takes a moment, but the group quickly begins to lose its resolve. Keith can all but smell the fear on them. From the back of the group, a few disperse, slipping out the door as others follow behind them. The priest tries to remain firm, but even he falters as the rest of the townsfolk abandon the church. Keith watches him shake, stares directly into his eyes, and watches him waver and surrender. He, too, leaves.

All that remains in their wake are their abandoned weapons and a body.

Keith doesn’t move, even as the church door has closed, even as he and Shiro are left alone again in the church. He’s held it back but as the silence falls across the room, Keith begins to tremble. Shiro is somewhere behind him still, Keith can sense him, but he doesn’t speak. Keith stares at the body strewn on the floor in front of him, at the ripped off head that sits lifelessly on the stone like a plant uprooted from the earth.

 _If he didn’t think you were a monster already, he surely does now_.

A few more stagnant moments of silence hang in the church before Shiro finally speaks.

“K-Keith…”

Keith can hear the uneasiness in his voice: he sounds afraid.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Keith mumbles, “But… he was going to hurt you.”

“Keith,” Shiro says again. Is voice is less shaky this time, and closer to Keith. Keith doesn’t turn to look at him.

“I know what you must think of me now, but I… I could not let them harm you. Shiro, I-”

Shiro stops him short with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He urges Keith to turn around and pulls him into an engulfing hug. There is blood all over Keith, and he knows it must be rubbing onto the pristine whiteness of Shiro’s robes, but he can’t stop himself from clinging. He splays his hands across Shiro’s back - blood and all - and curls his fingers into the fabric. If Shiro thinks him a monster, he does not show it, and the relief that washes over Keith is almost overwhelming.

“Thank you,” Shiro whispers, nuzzling his face into Keith’s hair.

They stay like that for a few extended seconds: Shiro’s arms wrapped tight around his middle, Keith’s face buried in the comfort of Shiro’s chest. And even when Keith pulls away, Shiro makes sure to keep his hands on Keith’s biceps. It’s a sturdy comfort, Shiro’s hands, and Keith suddenly feels very weak between them.

Keith licks his lips and looks up to meet Shiro’s eyes.

“”They’ll be back.”

Shiro nods.

“They’ll come back with more people and more weapons… Shiro, I-I can’t stay here.”

Shiro ducks his head and nods his wordless understanding. Keith can barely see his expression, Shiro making sure to avoid Keith’s gaze, but Keith could swear he sees sadness on his face. Keith understands. The mere thought of leaving, of the two of them going on their separate ways, leaves a hollow ache in Keith’s chest. 

“They’ll… They’ll probably come for you, as well,” Keith tells him. “They know now that you’ve harbored me. I hate that I have put you in danger but, they’ll come back for you, whether I’m here or not.”

Shiro nods again - the motion more curt and solemn this time.

“Perhaps they will,” He mutters in resignation.

They’ll come for him, and Shiro knows it, and the thought of leaving Shiro here alone to face them rends Keith.

“You shouldn’t stay here,” Keith asserts. It’s a long-shot and he knows it, but there is a part of him that wonders if perhaps Shiro might agree to leave this place. “You aren’t safe here.”

An empty chuckle slips past Shiro’s lips as he shakes his head. He smiles a sad, flimsy smile.

“I have nowhere to go, Keith. This is the only home I know.”

The blood on Keith’s hands is not yet dry, but he doesn’t care. He lifts his hand to cradle the sharp curve of Shiro’s jaw and eases his gaze up to look at him.

“Home is wherever you decide it to be.”

Shiro tries to glance away, but Keith won’t let him. With a gentle stroke along his cheek, smearing a light tinge of red across his skin, he keeps Shiro’s eyes locked with his.

“Shiro, you welcomed me and tended to me without thought or hesitation. You gave me sanctuary when I had none. Let me do the same for you.”

Shiro’s brow furrows.

“What?”

“Come with me. Don’t… stay here and wait for death to come knock upon your door. I believe that… you’re right. Whether it be God, or the universe, or fate, I believe I found you for a reason. And I don’t want to leave that behind.”

Keith pauses and strokes Shiro’s cheeks.

“Come with me and we can start anew somewhere… together. I will give you sanctuary so long as you desire it. I will stay by your side so long as you will have me.”

Shiro doesn’t respond at first. One hand lifts off Keith’s hip and comes to toy with the cross that hangs around Shiro’s neck. He cranes his head around, eyes panning over the church he has called his home for year. His gaze settles on the crucifix that hangs at the center of the altar; he clutches the one around his neck. In the back of his mind, he wonders what is right to do, and in the forefront he thinks of his prayers. He thinks of all the questions he has asked, he thinks of his requests for guidance. He thinks of the gentle way Keith had knelt at his side at the altar and he wonders if perhaps this has been the path meant for him all along.

He turns his attention back to Keith and releases his hold on his pendant. His hand settles on Keith’s waist, thumb massaging the spot on his side where his wound had once been. He meets Keith’s eyes once again and stares into them with intent. Just like before, there is something distinctly human that lives inside their depths. They’re unnatural, of course, the eyes of a man who has not been a man for many years, but his humanity remains. There is warmth and life that lives behind those eyes. Affection. Devotion. Love. There is a soul there despite what he is.

And so Shiro nods.

He inches closer and leans in close, pressing his forehead firmly against Keith’s. He sighs, low and slow, and nods again.

“Yes. Yes, I will go with you.”  

**::**

**Author's Note:**

> thank you guys so much for reading this fic! i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> if you liked this fic, maybe leave me a little comment or check out my other works! and again, if you're interested in commissioning me, make sure you check out my **[commissions information post](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/post/171346023708/fic-commissions-open)**. 
> 
> you can also find me on [tumblr](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche). thanks again for reading!


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